Daenerys

The masters had breached the walls of Astapor in over a dozen places with their strange weapons that bellowed, smoke, fire, and death. When night fell the freedmen, and unsullied had pulled the rubble away from the walls and countless destroyed buildings and built barricades behind the breaches. They built a killing ground where countless Yunkai'i and Meereenese slave soldiers would die, though she'd prayed that it wouldn't come to that. She knew her prayers were fruitless. The gods above Slaver's Bay seemed to want blood above all else.

But then the masters had sent an envoy, the same one she'd met before, the ugly man named Skahaz mo Kandaq. It had gone well, and for a few moments, she had allowed herself to hope that the masters would agree to a truce. That they would agree to a peace that would let her rebuild her strength, that would offer her people safety after too much hardship and war. Ser Barristan had warned her that this was unlikely at best, she had dismissed his concerns at the time, even though she knew he was right. The masters couldn't let their slaves have hope. Couldn't let them have the example of a free city to inspire them. The masters needed to defeat her, and it was an all-consuming need that would push them to spend lives like grains of sand. Ser Barristans doubts and her own worst fears were quickly proven right, before darkness fell the weapons roared again, and under the cover of night, a trio of probing attacks tested the defences. Then when dawn finally came, thousands of slave soldiers had been thrown at the walls. Dany's unsullied and freedmen had thrown them back. She lost a bare few hundred men to the endless volley's of crossbow bolts and slingshots, while the enslaved dead seemed to carpet the ground outside the walls.

The rest of the day was uneventful, as both sides licked their wounds, but that night, and every night since her children had feasted on the dead. Every night, Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion rose into the darkness to feed on the mountains of corpses the besiegers left for them.

The masters made no offer of a truce to collect the dead, instead, they sent different parties of slave soldiers to attack the walls during the night. When day broke the bombardment began anew and the red brick walls crumbled further still. As days bled into weeks, the iron legions of New Ghis were sent to the attack. Although far more successful than the slave soldiers, they were still pushed back by the unsullied. This pattern of night attacks, a morning assault, and a daily bombardment would continue for weeks.

Before long a threat nearly as great as the masters emerged inside the walls. Stores that had been low to start with were now almost empty, and her people were beginning to starve. Even Dany's own table was growing empty. Only her dragons ate well, growing stronger and larger every day as they feasted on the dead. Soon they might be big enough to ride, she thought, though that was small comfort to the hardship Astapor was suffering.

More days brought more attacks from without the walls, while within her people starved and grew desperate. Some bands of freedmen began to prey on each other, stealing food or valuables with which to buy food. Fights between armed bands happened occasionally, then regularly, and then often, nearly every day. Stress and fear hung over her people like a storm cloud. On a bombardment day, those came regularly enough to be predicted, though Ser Barristan had cautioned her. "It could be a trap," he'd warned. "Set up the pattern, and wait for your guard to be down."

"I know the risk," Dany had said. "But it must be taken or else there won't be a victory." Unspoken went the quiet fear that there would likely not be a victory in any case. The slavers scented blood and weakness, and like wild dogs, they would never relent. Thrice Dany had offered to meet them, to discuss the terms of a ceasefire, and thrice her envoy's head had been sent back to her.

With the worry of an assault assuaged by the bombardment, the Unsullied took to the streets. The cruelest of the gangs were rounded up and conscripted into the garrisons that manned the walls while the Unsullied rested. Their hidden stores of food were seized and taken to the granaries beneath the pyramids. They'll desert, a voice in Dany's head said when she gave the order, a voice that sounded like Jorah Mormonts. When she saw the conscripts manning the walls, it spoke again. They'll abandon their posts, it said, it would be simpler to just kill them. A part of her wanted to do just that, but she hoped that the promise of food would keep them at their posts, and besides, she needed as many strong arms as possible to defend the walls. For the most part, it did, some few fled in the night, but most preferred hunger to the certainty of torture and death that the masters promised any prisoners. With the worst of the troublemakers off the streets, some sense of order returned to Astapor.

It lasted until the next assault. After countless attempts, the attackers finally overwhelmed the exhausted defenders and pushed into the city streets. A band of freedmen had broken and the Unsullied had simply been too slow to plug the gap the iron legions had made. An eventuality that had been prepared for, but no less or blow for all that. The attack had happened the evening, as the masters moved their forces forward, and fighting continued deep into the night. The Unsullied had been late but they plugged the gap nonetheless, and soon pushed the enemy back. The iron legions retreated, bloody but unbroken, and in their place came hours of desultory attacks as the masters of Yunkai threw men at the walls. Their eventual retreat brought no respite either. Raids and volleys of bolts and stones kept the defenders awake, exhausted, and stretched thin over too much wall.

"This will be it," Ser Barristan had said unbidden. "The next attack will be the last, it will break us or break the enemy."

"Which do you think is more likely?"

Ser Barristan said nothing, and that was an answer in and of itself.

Dany stayed awake the whole night, listening with a heavy heart, the reports that came in. So many dead, so many wounded, even news of deserters who fled Astapor for the promise of slavery. Not all news was bad, the attackers sometimes seemed just as reluctant to spend their lives as the defenders, but the slavers merely made examples of their own men. Before long the approaches to the city walls were lined with the crucified and the impaled. Most had been whipped or flayed before being strung up. Faced with the choice of certain death at the hands of their masters or possible death from the spears of the unsullied, Dany didn't blame them for continuing to press forward. Eventually, the Yunkai'i had retreated, to be replaced by their slightly more formidable Meereenese counterparts. The attacks continued to rage as the sun slowly crept higher.

Dawn took a long time to come, but when it did it arrived all at once, and with it came something else. Just visible in the rising light was a fleet, approaching like a shadow over the water. The wind was light, and their banners and sails hung limp. Dany ran from her room to watch the fleet from her balcony. Ser Barristan soon joined her, his armour was polished and his white cloak clean, but his hair still mussed from sleep. He'd brought a Myrish eye with him. "What is this?" She whispered to him.

Aggo came quickly as well, leaning far forward over the balcony. "There are drawings on their sails," he said. "Like snakes."

Dany took his word for it, of her bloodriders Aggo had the best eyes by far. To her, the sails were still simply a grey mass broken here and there with flashes of colours. The sun inched a little higher and Ser Barristan raised the Myrish eye to his face. His jaw dropped in shock. "Not snakes," he said to Aggo and Daenerys. "Tentacles."

"Like a squid?" Aggo asked.

Ser Barristan pointed at one of the larger ships. "Like a kraken," he pointed at a different ship and another and another. "A scythe, a horn. My queen, these are Ironmen."

Dany felt her heart flutter, Ironmen, warriors from the Seven Kingdoms. "My brother spoke little of House Greyjoy, only that they had no love for the Usurper."

"He had the right of it," Ser Barristan said. "They are a cruel people, raiders, murderers, and rapers, but they had no love for Robert Baratheon, nor for any of his sons or brothers."

Dany shook her head, the slaver fleet was slowly moving to match the approach of the Ironmen. "Why are they here?"

Before Ser Barristan could answer the sound of a horn rose from the approaching Ironman fleet, a sound that rose and swelled to heights greater than Dany thought possible. The sound reverberated through her ears, her body, even the silk of her dress seemed to be vibrating. She clapped her hands to her ears as the world shook around her. Dany stumbled forward to the edge of her balcony. My children, she thought, my children. Somehow she could sense the power in the horn, it called to something in her blood. Some part of her she hadn't felt since the night she'd burned her sun and stars, the night her children had woken from stone eggs. Drogon and Viserion were elsewhere, perhaps hunting in the hills beyond the city, or hiding in the tunnels deep within one of the pyramids, but Rhaegal was in the courtyard below. Her green child had curled himself into a ball and was writhing and rolling in pain on the dry grass. His tail tip, wings, and claws were spasming uncontrollably. Dany fell to her knees, her hands clutched the side of her head, unable to bear the pain the horn summoned. As she watched him writhe the pain began to mount, it felt like something within her was being torn apart.

Ser Barristan and Aggo were clutching their ears as well, though they hadn't fallen to the ground as Dany had, they weren't screaming either. At last, pain began to fade slightly, Dany still laid down on the ground, pressing her forehead into the warm stone. The horn was calling still to her, calling to her blood.

"My queen," Ser Barristan rushed toward her, his white cloak fluttering at the edge of her vision. "My queen," Ser Barristan pressed his hand on her back and rubbed her.

Dany felt her stomach twist and rebel against her, bile rose up and escaped her.

"Khaleesi, the dragon," Aggo said.

"Rhaegal," Dany pushed herself to her feet, ignoring Ser Barristan and Aggo's concerns, and her own pain. She forced herself to the edge of the balcony and looked down into the garden again. Rhaegal was limp, his limbs were splayed out like a dead thing. Only a twitching tail and a slowly opening and closing jaws gave any sign that he was alive. The sound of the horn began to pull on her soul once again, and another surge of pain overtook her. It started just behind her eyes and it spread through her whole head. It felt like hundreds of hammers beating the inside of her skull. She fell to her knees again, but forced her eyes to stay open, Rhaegal was thrashing in pain again, twisting in on himself. Dany grimaced and fought back a scream that threatened to tear her throat apart, but suddenly at long last, the sound of the horn stopped. Dany fell again gasping for breath, Aggo and Ser Barristan were at her sides, worrying like mother hens over an egg. Below them, in the garden, Dany heard a snarl as Rhaegal sprang to life. Her green child roared and spat flame at one of the garden's trees. His wings spread and lifted him into the air. Dany stretched out her hand. "Rhaegal!"

Rhaegal turned his head slightly but didn't stop his ascent. In a second he was far above the garden, seconds later and he was too far away. He flew over the city, toward the sea, toward the battle that was brewing on the waters.

Quentyn

It seemed like Swift Blow herself was vibrating as the drumbeat called the oars to battle speed. "Hah!" The rowers yelled at every stroke. "Hah!" The Ironmen rowers wore their armour, their swords, axes, and spears rested in the centre of the ship. Their shields hung on straps attached to the rails. "Hah!" They roared again. Quentyn hadn't the muscles or the training to man the oars, instead, he waited at the bow behind Urri the Barrel.

"We fight in pairs," the captain said. "You'll be at my side with your shield and spear."

"You aren't worried I'll get you killed?" Quentyn had asked as he slipped on the borrowed mail shirt.

"Haha!" Urri laughed. "What'd I tell you when I rescued you? It's good luck to rescue a shipwrecked man, even better luck to have him at your side in battle." The sound of a horn arose from another ship and the drumbeat quickened. He clapped Quentyn on the shoulder. "Get in position, it's almost dawn," Urri smiled. "It's time."

Minutes later and Quentyn found himself standing among the fiercest warriors Swift Blow had to offer. He stood in a slightly too big mail shirt, slightly too small padding beneath it, a heavy shield with a leviathan emblazoned upon it in one hand, a short spear in the other, and a broad-bladed sword at his waist. He looked over at the score of other smaller ships like Swift Blow that were racing toward the shore. The enemy fleet had been caught sleeping and was only now forming battle lines. Over a hundred war galleys, some were small like Swift Blow, while others looked like they would tower over even Iron Victory. Beyond the enemy fleet, the sun was just beginning to rise in the east and shine upon the red brick pyramids and ruined walls of Astapor.

Smoke rose from the slaver city in thick plumes, outside the city the horde of slave soldiers spread like a gross infection over the land. Thinner clouds of smoke rose from their campfires. A horn bellowed from elsewhere in the fleet, another answered, and another, and another, and then another horn bellowed, louder and greater than all the rest combined.

The horn bellowed from Iron Victory, Lord Victarion's flagship, Quentyn and the rest of the crew of Swift Blow fell clapped their hands to their ears as the horn continued to bellow it's unearthly sound across the waters.

"What was that?" Quentyn asked when it finally stopped. "No horn could do that."

"No normal horn," Urri said. He smiled. "But a magic horn, one with glowing runes, a horn that was stolen from the ruins of Old Valyria itself! A magic horn could!" Urri's grin widened as he pointed toward the city. "Dragonbinder's call has been answered!"

Quentyn had to squint as he looked at the city, the pyramids were wreathed in smoke, but after a moment he saw it. A dark shape rising from the tallest of the pyramids and flying through the smoke, toward the sea, toward the enemy fleet that was hastily forming its battle lines. The shape came closer and grew clearer, the dragon flew swiftly, the sunlight shining on its green scales. Quentyn's grip on his spear tightened. The sounds of panic and terror from the enemy fleet carried over the water. Half-formed battle lines were dissolving as every captain, every ship, raced each other to flee the coming flames, the coming death. Some were fast enough, but many were too slow. The green dragon raced over the sails of a huge galley, only a few arrows rose to meet it, and they did little to dissuade the beast. Green flame erupted from its maw, and within seconds began to consume the pride of the slaver fleet. The dragon didn't rest to savour the victory, driven by the magic of the horn, it repeated the burnings again, and again, and again. Quentyn could hear the screaming grow louder as Swift Blow, and the rest of the Iron Fleet rowed closer. He could smell the smoke now, the acrid stench of burning pitch, wood, and flesh.

Only a handful of the enemy ships were burning, but those that weren't were fleeing in a blind panic, and doing nothing to stop the Ironborn ships that raced past them to reach the red sand and gravel beach of the shore. Suddenly Quentyn began to hear the drumbeat again, though he was certain it had never stopped, compared to the horn, and the dragon it seemed so much smaller than it had before. High above the ships, the dragon flew overhead, twisting this way and that, as if unsure if it should continue to put the fear of Old Valyria into the Ghiscari or else settle for what had already been done.

"Get ready," Urri said, clapping Quentyn on the shoulder. The beach was close now, so close, the sea was gentle, yet even so Swift Blow began to shake as the surf rose up against the shore. They were landing close to the walls, the morning sunlight reflected off the red bricks and gave a hellish light to the beach before them. Swift Blow and the other small ships rushed ahead of the fleet, some of the larger ships had already dropped anchor and were putting smaller boats packed with men into the sea. Too soon for Quentyn's courage, Swift Blow ran aground on the shores of Astapor.

Shouts, warhorns, and the drumbeat from within the heart of a hundred ships carried Quentyn over the rail and into hip-deep water. Ironborn crashed over the sides and fell into the water after him. Together the crew waded out of the sea and someone started to sing. Not one of the courtly songs of Sunspear or the Water Gardens, it was rougher and louder. A song to sing in battle.

OH OHHH OH AHHH! OH OH OH OHHHHH!
Their blood runs cold!
We take the loot!
But don't get old!

Spears, swords, and axes clashed against shield rims as the Ironborn moved into position, and the cry rose again. A horn roared thrice in quick succession. "Shark tooth!" Urri roared at the men. "Shark tooth!" The Ironborn moved like fish in a school or like birds in flight, shifting into position with practiced ease. Quentyn stumbled as he tried to follow Urri's lead. The song continued.

AHHH AHHH OHHH AHHH OHHHH!
All hail the mighty!
The Drowned God's rising from the deep!
With steel and fire we're sailing endless seas!
AHHH AHHH OHHH AHHH OHHHH!

Quentyn began to join in now, shouting the words at the top of his lungs as he advanced up the beach, spear, and shield in hand while struggling to stay in formation. Up and down the shore, the crews had formed wedges, shields on the outside with axemen behind. In the fore of the shark tooth, a knot of half a dozen men armed with longspears took positions. The spears were heavy, with stiff shafts and vicious thrusting points, they looked more like lances than the shortspear Quentyn held in his hand. He stamped the but on the ground as he advanced and sang.

The Drowned God is calling!
We shed our blood but never rest!
We're calling out for more!
AHHH AHHH OHHH AHHH OHHHH!
From watery halls we came to reave!
AHHHH OHHHH!

The enemy was forming a makeshift line ahead of them, a huge mob of slave soldiers armed with spears and shields, running this way and that and getting in each other's way. Quentyn could see masters mounted on fine horses and armed with whips urging the slave soldiers into position. Unbidden, Quentyn felt his lips twist into a mockery of a smile, compared to the fluid advance of the Ironborn these slave soldiers were nothing. Steel and the Drowned God's fury would wash them away like footsteps in the sand. A horn bellowed twice more and the pace quickened. Quentyn moved his spear into his shield hand and readied a javelin. The enemy had formed a rough wall to counter the Ironborn, but the rows of shark teeth were aimed like arrows at the trembling slave soldiers. From the corner of his eye, Quentyn saw the huge golden cloaked figure of Victarion Greyjoy jogging ahead of the line.

Our names to be written in blood, fire, and song!
For in watery halls!
OHHH!
What is dead may never DIE!
AHHH AHHH OHHH AHHH OHHHH!

As the final roar escaped his lips Quentyn took a few quick steps forward out of the formation and threw his javelin over the sands and watched it strike a slave soldier in the shoulder. Others did the same and like Quentyn quickly fell back into the line. The shark tooth was a spear of men, shields, and steel aimed at the enemy's heart. The spearmen at the front lowered their lances, like charging knights. The long spears were aimed low, to better strike the bottom of shields or stab into legs and groins. The momentum of the shark tooth carried the spearmen forward and pushed their impaled victims back, even if only a little. A hole was made and the shark tooth bit into it. Spearmen dropped their weapons and drew swords and axes, hacking, slashing, and stabbing the stunned enemy. Shieldbearers like Quentyn followed, not killing, just pushing, making the breach wider, until Urri shouldered Quentyn aside and chopped a slave soldier on stilts with his two-handed axe. The other axemen pushed forward cutting and killing, their partners with shields covered them. Quentyn deflected a desperate spear thrust aimed at Urri's leg even as the barrel-shaped captain cut down two slaves in quick succession with his axe.

Other Ironborn behind Quentyn pushed him forward, a man behind Quentyn raised his shield over the prince's head, blocking a spear thrust. Quentyn stooped low shield forward, always forward, and thrust blindly with his spear. Urri's stepped back sheltering behind the wall of shields that kept the enemy at bay. "Kill em, boys!"

With a scream of hate, a man with wild hair, salt-stained robes, and seaweed in his hair burst out of the Ironborn ranks to hammer wildly with a pair of wooden clubs. Instead of easily spearing the Drowned Man the slave soldiers flinched back, and like wolves scenting blood the Ironborn launched forward. For a second furious battle was again met between the two armies, only a for a second, after that the enemy fled. Slave soldiers broke rank all at once and fled the field. Better to have stayed and fought, for the slaughter wrought in those brief moments of flight was greater than any hours of fighting could have brought. Quentyn screamed as he chased down the fleeing enemy. His spear stabbed and thrust at unprotected backs, legs, and arms wounding and killing anyone within reach.

Suddenly he realised that he was alone and a horn was sounding again, the drumbeat was calling, the tramp of feet and the rattle of armour and shields. The other ships had landed, the Ironborn poured forth upon the beach of Astapor. Banners flew high, scythes, leviathans, horns, krakens, skeletal hands, grey trees, and nooses. The Ironborn were marching as one, shields locked and weapons ready. Quentyn slowed and waited for the line to reach him. Two shields parted and Quentyn rejoined the ranks. He was suddenly tired, his mouth was dry and filled with grit, his legs burned, his left arm throbbed from the pain of a hundred blows that had crashed upon the shield that was now scarred and battered. The slave soldiers had scattered and fled, but the enemy wasn't yet defeated. A wall of shields and spears waited for them, men armed and armoured in mail and bits of plate. The iron legions of New Ghis.

A hundred paces away from the enemy the Ironborn stopped. The wind shifted and the stench of death and disease filled Quentyn's nose. A hand clapped on his shoulder, making Quentyn jump. It was Urri. "This is where things get messy," he said. "These fucks won't run, they'll stand."

"They'll die," Quentyn said with sudden surety.

"And they'll bleed us doing so," Urri cautioned.

"No," Quentyn said. "Look," he pointed his spear at the walls of Astapor where the gates were broken, and a half dozen breeches broke the ramparts of red brick. From the broken gates and shattered walls advanced another army. Armed like the iron legions that stood before them, there was nonetheless something distinct about them. They way they moved, the silence of their march, and the lack of ornamentation or flamboyant masters. The sun glinted off spiked helmets, tall shields, and spear points. The Unsullied marched to battle.

The ranks of the Ironborn parted, and a huge man with a cape of cloth-of-gold tentacles stepped forward, a huge and bloody axe in his hands. Victarion Greyjoy raised his axe toward the sky and shouted. "What is dead may never die!"

"BUT RISES AGAIN HARDER AND STRONGER!" The Ironborn answered.

The stamp of feet began again. Quentyn had half expected a furious charge like before, but now the shields stayed locked, a wall, a wave, to grind down the rock before them. Like a mirror, the Unsullied formed their own wall of shields and spears and advance upon the iron legion's flank. "What is dead may never die," Quentyn prayed as the spears of the iron legion lowered before his eyes, sunlight glinting off razor-sharp points.

Skahaz

"It's incredible," Skahaz said to Missandei. "How quickly disaster can be snatched from the jaws of victory."

"Yes, great master," the slave girl said.

Skahaz shook his head, an enemy fleet had arrived with the dawn. Under the cover of night, they had drawn close to the allied armada that blockaded Astapor. It wouldn't have mattered, shouldn't have mattered, they were outnumbered three to one and the captains were experienced leaders having fought the pirates of the Basilisk Isles half a hundred times each. But as Old Ghis had learned, numbers, experience, and skill mean nothing in the face of dragons. The fleet that should have been destroyed had instead sailed in past the burning or fleeing remnants of the combined fleets of Meereen, Yunkai, and New Ghis.

Skahaz had felt a millennia old bitterness settle in his heart. A bitterness that had first been born when a militia sheepfucking herders had burned the lockstep legions thousands of years ago. The sight of the fleet burning had sent many masters fleeing their posts already. Most of the other masters were fretting over their belongings, screaming at their slaves and whipping them to hurry things along. Skahaz doubted those masters would be seen again. Others were in the process of abandoning all but their greatest treasures in their haste to flee, Yezzan zo Qaggaz would have been among them, had he not had to struggle against his own weight to move even at a snail's pace. Aside from Skahaz only a bare few yet remained at their posts, Hizdahr zo Loraq and a handful of youths were trying to extricate the Meereenese force that had been attacking the city. On the other side of the camp, Yurkhaz zo Yunzak was trying to organize a reserve to support Malazza mo Rhaez, who was leading her battalions of strapping, handsome slaves onto the beach. Skahaz had things more important to attend to than trying to staunch the flow of defeat gushing over the battlefield.

The slaves bearing his palanquin on their backs ran as fast as they could to reach the leaderless Meereenese reserve. Fully a third of the Meereenese soldiers were engaged in an assault on Astapor, along with most of the best officers. Those that remained were indecisive at best or mindless followers at worst. Messengers sent ahead had already gathered them for Skahaz.

"Great Master," the highest ranking officer stepped forward and bowed. His was named Grazdan, no house name followed, he wasn't a slave, but neither was he a Great Master of Meereen. Like many freemen, he walked a fine line in the social castes of Slaver's Bay and was always desperate to please.

Skahaz stepped from the palanquin with as much dignity as he could muster what orders have you given?"

"I've brought the army to readiness, Great Master." Grazdan looked utterly relieved to see someone arrive to tell him what to do.

Readiness for what you fool, Skahaz did a half turn and watched Malazza zo Rhaez's slaves engage with a quarter their number in enemy fighters, they wouldn't last long. "Excellent work," he said pleasantly. "Order a retreat along the coast road. Regroup at Gomira," Skahaz named the small town almost at random. "I will join you on the march there."

"The, the other troops," Grazdan mumbled.

"Their sacrifice will buy the safety of your men," Skahaz said. "You did well not to throw their lives away needlessly."

"Yes, Great Master," Grazdan bowed again.

"I will join you soon to give you more commands, but I have a few other things to take care of before I do."

"Yes, Great Master," Grazdan repeated himself.

Skahaz was already returning to his palanquin. The slaves lifted it with a grunt and hurried onward. A minute passed, and Skahaz parted the silk screen to check the progress of the battle. Malazza mo Rhaez's slaves were in full flight, their mistress was nowhere to be seen, likely she had fled already. Yurkhaz zo Yunzak was proving himself worthy of his old honourifics and respect as he lead a brave but futile Yunkai'i force to plug the growing gaps. The Windblown on the far side of the camp looked lonely, the other sellswords were already fleeing the field. The iron legions of New Ghis stood increasingly alone as they assembled on the field of battle. No time, he thought, a messenger will have to do for now.

But even as finally the only skilled soldiers had finally turned to face the fury of these pirates, the dragon queen's garrison had sallied forth. Unsullied followed by a furious tide of slaves armed with staves, clubs, and spears. Skahaz had watched helplessly as the iron legions became hemmed in from all sides, the first few companies began to run only moments later.

The sight of which dismayed the Meereenese slave soldiers Hizdahr zo Loraq had been rallying on the far side of the camp. A dismay that turned to panic when the survivors from the Yunkai'i and the city assault spread their fear. The enemy had only to sneeze in their direction to prompt the Meereenese to flight as well. The iron legions would stand but would soon be crushed between the hammer and anvil of the unsullied and the new enemies. Most of the sellswords had already fled, only the Windblown remained at the camp, trying to keep order. They wouldn't stay much longer. Skahaz waved a mounted messenger over and handed him a scroll Skahaz had written and sealed hours ago. "Deliver this to the Tattered Prince with all haste," Skahaz let the silk curtain of the palanquin fall back once the messenger had taken the scroll.

No doubt a dozen other masters had sent contradictory commands that the Windblown were to charge the enemy in a futile attempt to salvage the disaster, but Skahaz was sure the Tattered Prince would listen to only one, that he would remember who had sent it, and who had let him keep some scrap of honour.

Satisfied that his orders for the Windblown to retreat would be delivered, Skahaz leaned back onto his seat. The slaves carried him quickly past the slaves that were hurriedly packing his things. He left the palanquin and ran into his now roofless pavilion, Missandei was waiting for him.

"The best to hope for now is to regroup some distance away, gather the legions survivors, the sellswords, and the slaves, and try again," he spoke mostly to himself, but Missandei voiced her agreement as she ran after him.

"Yes, Great Master."

He hurriedly shrugged off the gold and green fringed tokar. He slapped away the hands of a slave who rushed over to dress him. Instead, he dressed himself quickly in riding clothes of silk and cotton before storming out of the pavilion, Missandei following at his heels, and pushed his way through the crowd of slaves that were loading his possessions onto wagons. Despite the rush, Skahaz had little hope that they would end up anywhere but captured by the enemy by the end of the day. That was why he had no intention of waiting for the wagons. A slave bowed and held out the reins for Skahaz's mount. Many masters had little use for horses, preferring instead to be carried on palanquins, but in his youth, Skahaz had been very fond of the animals. He'd spent hours riding on his family's rural estate, such skills were hard to forget. Skahaz mounted the mare with practiced ease, his feet found the stirrups a little too high, but that was a small price to pay for the extra speed a horse would grant him.

"Master?" Missandei asked as Skahaz pulled the mare around, ready to ride into the dawn, away from Astapor. The one word stopped him dead, he looked down at her to find that the slave girl was looking up at him with her great big golden eyes. Skahaz reached down and took her by the arm, he pulled her up and placed her in front of him. I'm getting soft in my old age. He put spurs to the mare and rode away, outracing the flood of humanity fleeing the camp.

Skahaz met Grazdan and his Meereenese slave soldiers on the road and continued to give commands. Stragglers, both Meereenese and Yunkai'i, were reintegrated into the companies. Sellswords formed the rearguard, at the very least their sudden flight would give warning of an approaching enemy. As they trickled in the New Ghissian legionnaires were placed at the front of the column.

Grazdan bowed his head as Skahaz finished his commands. "About today," he began, almost embarrassed about his own cowardice.

"Your actions were commendable," Skahaz interrupted, he ignored the captain's confusion and continued. "To respond so quickly to my commands to retreat. It showed impressive skill and discipline for both you and your men."

"Yes… of course," Grazdan said.

"I trust you'll be just as prompt to follow other commands in the future?"

"Of course Great Master," said Grazdan, he bowed again as he spoke.

"Excellent," Skahaz pulled the reins on his horse and travelled to a different part of the long column.

Further commands were given when the army arrived, late in the afternoon, in Gomira. The denizens were evicted from their homes to make room for the great masters and wise masters who had been trickling into the army since the flight had begun at dawn. The masters, for the most part, fled to the familiarity of luxury and protection. Some masters didn't arrive, Malazza mo Rhaez, Yurkhaz zo Yunzak, and Yezzan zo Qaqqaz were the most prominent among the missing. As the sun fell in the west, hundreds and thousands of continued to trickle in, and many more were still missing. Scouts were sent to patrol far and wide and reported that thousands were still scattered across dozens and dozens of miles of hills, coast, scrub forest, and roads, but there was no sign of the enemy. The dragon queen and her allies were still licking their wounds in Astapor. While the masters were holed up in the town, the slave soldiers surrounding it were put to work, repairing equipment and wagons, hauling earth and wood to make simple fortifications for the camp. Beyond them, the sellswords waited in their own camps. When night fell, at last, Skahaz departed his own temporary residence to meet the Windblown. He walked in plain clothes and a thin cloak, to keep the cool ocean wind off his shoulders. Missandei followed at his heels.

"My prince," Skahaz bowed as he approached the Tattered Prince.

The Pentoshi sellsword in an old cloak stood and bowed in turn. "The Honourable Skahaz mo Kandaq," he said. "Please take a seat."

Skahaz didn't wait for more pleasantries and took the offered stool, Missander sat crosslegged on the dirt beside him. A slave poured wine for Skahaz and the Tattered Prince. Skahaz sipped it immediately. "Very nice," he said. "From the west?"

The Tattered Prince nodded. "The Sunset Lands, the Arbor."

"Ah, they are a barbarous people but they make very fine wine."

"I thought it fitting given the defeat the Sunset Landers dealt us today."

"Daenerys Targaryen has never set foot in the Sunset Lands," Skahaz scoffed.

"Not her," the Tattered Prince said. "The fleet, Ironmen they're called. Pirates and reavers from a dreary set of isles in the Sunset Sea."

"Supporters of her family? Loyalists?"

"Perhaps," the Tattered Prince shrugged. "Madness and war have overtaken the Sunset Lands in recent years. When the Windblown took ship in Volantis, there were four kings."

"Yes," Skahaz said. King Robert died, and his brothers and sons went to war against each other."

"Just one son, plus two brothers, and two rebel kings in the North and the Iron Islands, the same isles the fleet was from."

"That's five kings," Skahaz said.

"One of the brothers was already dead when we left."

"Hmph," Skahaz drank more wine as he let his thoughts settle. "Most likely these Ironmen have come looking for an alliance," he smiled. "Their leader will be pushing her to go west. I don't suppose you have any more to say on these Ironmen?"

"Like the rest of the Sunset Landers, the Ironmen live in great clans of warriors, chief among the Ironmen are the Greyjoys. Their banner was there, the golden kraken on black. Which of their house came, I know not."

"Would you know if you met him?"

"Only by reputation, but yes. The Ironmen often sail the Narrow Sea to raid and pillage. The names of some are known to me, Balon, Victarion, and Asha. There are others, but I know them not."

"You'll be at my side when next I meet the dragon queen then. Her new ally will demand his voice be heard."

"Know your enemy?"

"Know your enemy," Skahaz repeated.

"Tell me then Great Master what of the enemies inside the camp?"

Skahaz smiled. "I know them well the Meereenese are too pragmatic to make trouble now. The Yunkai'i could prove troublesome, for they are craven at heart and will look to save their own skins. Their losses at Astapor have weakened them, however, and with a strong hand, they can be brought to heel. But even a strong hand needs a blade to wield."

The Tattered Prince looked into the flames, deep in thought. "My contract is with Meereen. If the man Meereen has chosen to represent itself gives me a command, I am bound by my word and honour to obey."

Unless you choose not to, Skahaz thought. "You are a man of honour," Skahaz said. "Some of your compatriots are not."

The Tattered Prince leaned back in his seat. "Now we come to the heart of it. Let us speak plainly Skahaz. You want me to spy on the other commanders and inform you if they plan to switch sides."

"Not just the commanders," Skahaz said, abandoning all subtlety. "Should a master approach you, I'd want to know."

"Why come to me?"

"The Windblown are the best of the companies here, even a master foolish enough to betray the cause would still have enough sense to gain the strongest possible allies."

The Tattered Prince nodded in acknowledgement of the truth in those words. "And what, Skahaz, would the Windblown get out of this deal?"

"Gold, silver, slaves, and ships," Skahaz said plainly.

"From a thrice looted Astapor?"

"Perhaps," Skahaz said with a smile. "And perhaps a friend in a powerful place if things go as I foresee."

"Fine then keep your secrets," the Tattered Prince said with a chuckle.